


Worthless to one

by MartineBishop



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: (mild) language, Canon-Typical Violence, Gotham-style revenge, M/M, Nygmobblepot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-27
Updated: 2016-11-27
Packaged: 2018-09-02 14:16:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8670757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MartineBishop/pseuds/MartineBishop
Summary: Edward knows who killed Isabella. He needs his revenge to find closure. And Oswald knows this and learns what loving Edward means.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this story after season 3, episode 10 "Time Bomb". Sadly, Gotham does not seem to use this incredibly powerful pairing and Isabella seems to be nothing but a good ol' plot device :(. Tragic.  
> Since Edward takes revenge Gotham-style, please don't dwell on the logic of his plans all too much, OK? ;)

“Are you in love with me?“ Edward asks him. His voice is calm, emotionless. His face is too still, it should not be so still in a situation like this.

Oswald sits at the edge of the plush chair, the tips of his fingers dig into the fabric of the soft armrests. His mouth hangs open, he draws in small gulps of air like a fish out of water.

Edward has a .45 Colt trained on him, his thumb rests on the drawn hammer, his forefinger around the trigger.

It is the question that makes all other questions obsolete – if Oswald answers it correctly. Truthfully.

Edward has never even so much as mentioned Isabella’s name since he had entered the mansion, silently closing the door behind him in an unhurried, controlled gesture. He has not asked ‘Did you kill Isabella’ or even ‘Why did you kill Isabella?’

Edward is clever, he’s cleverer even than Oswald. He knows how to read people. He had known how to read all of Gotham when he had convinced Oswald that he needn’t buy the city’s vote. ‘They love you’, he had told him, with a warm smile and Oswald’s heart had melted just a little bit.

“Are you in love with me, Oswald?” Edward repeats and now impatience creeps into his voice. He takes one decisive step towards Oswald, the heel of his leather shoe makes a sharp sound on the marble floor. Oswald flinched as if Edward had already pulled the trigger.

“Why-“ Oswald starts but it comes out of his constricted throat as a wheeze. He swallows and tries again: “What makes you think that?”. He tries his smile, the charming, disarming kind that usually works so nicely on people. But Edward is not ‘people’ and Edward knows him far too well to be fooled this easily.

“Just. Answer. The. Question” Edward tells him in a sharp, precise voice but he bites off every word.

Oswald has managed to close his mouth, breathing heavily through his nose. He tries to find a reason to stall some more. He studies Edward’s eyes because they are the only part of him where emotions show. Had Edward known? Of course he had known. The hug after Edward had risked his life to save him from Butch’s ploy; the hug that had tethered on the edge of becoming something more. Oswald’s clumsy fidgeting around Edward, the invitation to a private dinner. Now Oswald feels foolish, realizing how easy he must’ve been to read.

Edward sighs impatiently and shakes his head once in a sharp motion. “Fine. If you must know, Miss Kean has enlightened me” he tells Oswald. “Her arguments are very convincing. She has quite a talent to get to the root of matters, it seems”.

Oswald’s eyes widen and for one perverse moment he feels relieved. Edward had not known after all. He had had no idea about Oswald’s feelings when he had so gleefully thrown the Isabella affair into his face.

Oswald sinks back a little into the chair and Edward gives him a confused look, lowering the weapon minutely. It still points to his chest, though, instead of his head, so there is really no improvement here.

“And you believe her?” Oswald ventures. “Just like that?”

“No, not just like that” Edward shots back and raises the gun to point it at Oswald’s head again. “That is why I’m asking you. So. Oswald. One last time. Are you-“

“No” Oswald interrupts him. “No, I’m not. In love with you. I’m not”. He presses his lips into a line and returns Edward’s cold stare.

The revolver wobbles very slightly as a fleeting emotion crosses Edward’s face. “I see” he says and then, abruptly, he lowers the weapon and eases the hammer carefully back into a less lethal position. He studies the revolver as he switches the safeguard into place and then lets it slide into the pocket of his pants.

“I would like to file my notice as chief of staff” Edwards says. “With immediate effect”.

Oswald tries to find a reply to this but fails, and so Edward only gives him one last look and then leaves the room and, by the sound of the door falling shut, also the mansion.

Edward sinks back into the plush chair and falters, bends over and buries his face in his hands. He begins to shake as the tension flows out of him and the immensity of the situation – and the consequences that must follow – weigh down on him like lead.

\-----  
  
Barbara’s face is half covered by the martini glass. She is watching him intently over the rim of it while she sips the transparent liquid. She tips the glass back suddenly and finished her drink with one gulp.

Barbara puts the glass on the counter next to her and leans back against its edge. She smiles beatifically at Oswald. “Soooo” she draws out the word. “You’re really fucked”. Her grin spreads and it’s genuine as Oswald’s anger rises.

“Quit your little games” he tells her irritably. Why does everyone think they have Oswald completely under their control these days? “I need to know what you told Edward. About me.”

Barbara shrugs and her blue fur coat slips off one shoulder. “Why ask me, when apparently, you already now, penguin?”

Oswald draws a deep breath and tightens the grip on his cane. He steps forward and with a deft motion rams the cane into Barbara’s stomach. With a grunt, she doubles over, gripping the stick in reflex. She stays bent over moaning in pain. Oswald watches her, cold satisfaction replacing the anger for now. He leaves the cane where it is, driven into her stomach, but not yet penetrating flesh. Should the Siren still think she could play with him, he would be more than happy to show her the neat little upgrades his walking stick had received recently.

Barbara lifts her head slowly, blond curls falling into her face. Her mouth is open in delight, not in pain, and her eyes shine. Then she laughs at him, low in her throat and with a dangerously insane edge. Oswald pushes a button on his cane and a blade shoots out from the tip of the stick right into Barbara’s intestines. Her face whitens in shock and the smile finally disappears. She steps back now, only to collide with the counter. Freed from the cane’s blade, the expanding blood stain soaks into her expensive dress. She presses a hand against the flow and supports herself with the other one on the counter.

Oswald steps back, retracting the blade and sets the cane’s tip on the ground. He leans over the walking stick, his face now close to Barbara’s. “The exact words, Barbara” he tells her, his voice is sweet.

“Why don’t you take your anger out on the one who _really_ deserves it?” Barbara hisses. Her free hand gropes along the counter to where the tissues are stapled. Oswald steps forward to hand her some of them and she presses them to the wound.

“Did you tell him I killed Isabella?” he ventures again and is rewarded with a grimace on Barbara’s face.

“He figured that out himself in like two seconds” she replies through clenched teeth.

“So you did indeed tell Edward I was in love with him. Why?”

She chuckles low in her throat. “Girls just wanna have fun … “ she sing-sangs, swaying from side to side a bit, grinning. Then all of a sudden her features become grave and she draws her eyebrows together. “He hurt my Tabitha. Nobody hurts Tabs like that. She didn’t even do anything to him!”. Her voice is angry now, hurt.

Oswald watches her with furrowed brows. “You don’t make any sense” he spits at her. It frightens him that he can’t understand why Barbara would get revenge for Tabitha from Edward by telling him that Oswald loved him. Suddenly Oswald wishes he had brought a couple of his thugs. He had thought he could handle one woman alone.

“If you think you can drive a wedge between Edward and me…” Oswald ventures, not sure if he’s taking the right direction. But a twinkle in Barbara’s eyes and the grin tugging at the corners of her mouth tells him that he’s on the right track after all.

Oswald wipes his phone out. “I advise you to think hard, _really_ hard, where your loyalties lie” he tells her, trying to sound threatening. He pokes at her side with the cane for better measures. Barbara flinches and ducks aside but a small smile stays on her lips.

“The things we do for love” she whispers.

Oswald regards her. Barbara’s face is white and blood drips from the hopelessly soaked tissues. She sways uncertainly, leaning heavily on the counter. The blood loss will soon drive her into unconsciousness.

Oswald dials 911 and reports an anonymous emergency in the Siren’s Nightclub.

Then he turns and waddles out to the street.

\-----  
  
Oswald hires eight more bodyguards. They are all over six feet tall and just as broad-shouldered. Two of them accompany him at all times now.

Edward’s absence leaves a void. Not only in Oswald’s heart, but that is not so new.

Ever since Edward had told Oswald about Isabella, Oswald had felt him slipping away. Edward had been overwhelmed by his incredible luck to have found this woman just as Oswald was overwhelmed by Edward’s confession. For a while, it seemed, they had both been floating in their own separate bubbles of inconceivability. The warmth that sometimes used to creep into Edward’s eyes when he talked to Oswald was reserved only for the times he talked about Isabella. Edward no longer told Oswald the sweet little things like he used to tell. There were no quiet affirmations of ‘I believe in you’ or ‘the people love you’ and the only person Edward was willing to do anything for was Isabella.

Oswald looks over to the dark, wooden desk that used to double as Edward’s office at the mansion. Paperwork piles there and the answering machine’s red light blinks aggressively. The phone rings all the time and Oswald tries to answer it but he can’t answer all the questions the people ask, so he tells them his chief of staff is sick and will get back to them. He has stopped doing so an hour ago, and the phone keeps ringing.

\-----

Three days pass until Oswald sits the young woman down on Edward’s desk. Her name is Shirley or Shireen or something and apparently, she had been on his campaign staff when he ran for mayor. She beams at him readily and thanks him a thousand times for the opportunity. He doesn’t really listen and tells her to try and work through the papers and return the missed calls and basically keep people out of his hair for now.

Shirleyshireen clears her throat loudly and Oswald jumps. He has finally managed to immerse himself in the Gotham General Hospital’s pledge for the construction of another emergency ramp when the girl interrupts him. He sighs dramatically before he turns to glare at her. “What?” he demands.

“Uhm, sir, I think this letter is confidential …” Shirleyshireen ventures and holds out an envelope.

Oswald rolls his eyes and questions the wisdom of hiring the girl. “Well, bring it to me, then” he tells her without hiding his exasperation and points to his cane resting against the back of the couch he’s lounging on.

“Sorry, of course, sir” Shirleyshireen mumbles and quickly rounds the desk to hand Oswald the letter.

Oswald puts the papers he was reading down and examines the envelope. It states his name and the address of his mansion and the fact that it is, indeed, confidential, all written with an old typewriter, it seems.

Oswald is not so stupid to just rip it open. Along with Edward, there are roughly five people who want to kill him that he can name off the top of his head. Probably more, if he thinks about it harder. A quick and untraceable death with anthrax would be impersonal but probably effective.

He holds the envelope against the rays of light that slant through the window behind him. He squints and can just so make out a folded piece of paper inside it. He shakes the letter but it seems to contain no powdery substances. Oswald has Shirleyshireen bring him his gloves. He cautiously pries the envelope open and pinches the enclosed paper between his forefinger and thumb. Careful not to let his skin get in contact with any of the letter’s parts, he smooths the paper open on the table. 

The handwriting is instantly familiar and Oswald’s heart drops even before he reads more than the letter’s opening line.

Edward’s writing is elegant but precise, like the man himself. Just like the way he speaks and moves, the lines are crisp and unblurred, unadorned but far from blunt.

The letter is short. All it says is this:

_Hello Oswald_

_Rest assured. This letter is not an attempt on your life as you must no doubt fear it would be. This is a riddle. Or perhaps it isn’t exactly a riddle, but a reminder._

_Do you recall what I once told you about love?_

_You would do well to remember it._

Oswald takes off his gloves and lets his fingertips run over the ink. The paper is of a heavy quality and the letters have left indentions on the material. When Oswald bends over it for closer inspection, a whiff of Edward’s smell rises up to him. This, more than anything, makes him tether dangerously close to the breaking point.

If Oswald has had any intentions to convince himself that he had let go of the man who had pointed a loaded revolver to his head, then he had been thoroughly fooling himself.

He loves Edward with an intensity and a pain that drive the breath from his lungs.

He holds the letter to his face and closes his eyes and whispers into the paper the answer to Edward’s riddle: “For some men, love is a source of strength, but for you and I, it’ll always be our most crippling weakness”.

\-----

Edwards stares out of the windows of his apartment. He can’t really see anything through the heavily stained glass, but his eyes aren’t focused there anyway. He leans his forehead against the cold surface and closes his eyes.

Isabella is gone. Still gone.

His naïve quest for her murderer has started a cascade of revelations. Edward can almost step clear of the dilemma and admire its beauty. If he wasn’t the victim trapped at its center, he would’ve given much to come up with something so exquisitely elegant. So beautifully destructive.

Edward refuses to give into emotions. Not yet. Not now. Right up to the point where he found out that Isabella was murdered, he had gone through a myriad of feelings. Infatuation, love, angst, grief, anger, hate. The whole palette. It was exhaustive. When he concluded that it was Oswald who had cut the car’s brake pipes, he was already so very drained. So he pushes the enormity of Oswald’s betrayal carefully aside. Just like he had done when he had taken Kristin’s body into the woods to bury.

It is the planning that keeps him focused and sane. The schematics, the material requirements, the math, the budget. He goes through these things, meticulous and clear-headed.

Edward turns from the window to sit at his table again. He drags the chair closer to the tabletop. It is littered with pieces of paper of different sizes. Blueprints, files, a stack of photos. A notebook sits on top of it all. A writing pad next to the computer holds Edward’s own notes. Edward picks up the pen and gets back to work.

\-----

Oswald bangs his fist against the plexiglas divider of his car. He tries to drag it open but it wouldn’t budge. “Are you deaf, man?” he shouts at the driver “I said we need to stop by the GCPD! Where the hell are you going!?” Oswald squeezes his eyes shut and pinches the bridge of his nose between two fingers. Ever since Edward resigned as chief of staff, idiots seem to sprout up all around him. The new girl keeps mixing things up, she must’ve given the driver a wrong itinerary for the day and the idiot is probably wearing earplugs with his phone’s volume turned up to max. Oswald swears loudly, since the man doesn’t hear him anyway. The mayor of Gotham City should _really_ be entitled to more professional staff.

The car slows down and takes a left turn, rolling over a bump on the road. Oswald looks up again and takes in his surroundings. His bowels turn to water when he realizes where he is. The car drives slowly past stacked corpses of old cars, rusty and sad. Metallic, oily parts in various stages of rot lie in piles strewn across the expanse. In front of Oswald’s car, Gotham’s junkyard stretches out into the gloom of the oncoming dusk. Oswald holds his breath and begins to shake as the skip that has nearly killed him once passes by on the right. But the car doesn’t stop there, thankfully. A strange structure made from steel rises into view in front of Oswald. It looks newly constructed, the naked, shiny metal isn’t covered with paint and he sees the thick bulges where the beams have been welted together. There seem to be two large platforms; one rests on the earth and the other one hangs high in the air. The whole thing reminds Oswald of a massive pair of scales.

“ _Hey!_ ” Oswald shouts again and bangs the tip of his cane against the plexiglas. But the driver remains impassive. Oswald has an inkling what this is amounting to. He rattles on the door but of course it doesn’t open. He scuttles back on the seat and tries to smash the window by kicking his foot against it, but his car is bullet-proof, so the glass would not give way. Then he tries a new tactic: “Whoever you’re working for, I can pay you twice as much. A-and if you’ve a criminal record, I can draw strings here, you know, no charges. Just unlock the door. Me-mechanical malfunction, happens all the time”.

Oswald feels the sweat collecting on his brow as the car rolls carefully onto the lower platform. Then a door does click and Oswald’s hands grope for the handle, but it is only the driver’s door that swings open. The man exits the car and moves quickly away from it.

Floodlights come on suddenly with a loud bang leaving Oswald momentarily blinded. Then his phone rings.

Oswald’s hands shake badly and he drops the phone once before he can swipe the screen to answer. The caller ID is hidden. He gulps and says: “He-hello?”

“Hello, dear friend” says Edward’s voice and Oswald drops the phone again. He picks it up hurriedly, putting it on speakers and gingerly rests it on the seat next to him.

“Without preamble, may I direct your attention to the front window?” Edward says and Oswald’s head shoots up.

The junkyard’s magnet crane advances towards the platform. It carries a dark lump of metal with it, electro-magnetically attached to the large disk dangling underneath its boom. Oswald watches as the crane lowers the thing down until a tremor throughout the scale-structure tells him it has touched down on the stage suspended in the air. Then the crane powers down its magnet, releasing the square to its own weight, and Oswald’s platform rises rapidly. Oswald shoots out his hands to grope for purchase, expecting the car to be hurled into the air. But the stage stabilizes eventually and Oswald finds himself level with the metallic lump.

“Let me explain this composition to you, Oswald” Edward’s voice says calmly and makes Oswald stare at the phone’s screen. “You are balanced on what is essentially an ordinary scale. The weight on the platform across from you counters the weight of your car –and you - exactly. You’re almost fifty feet in the air. Now, you might have to squint to see it, but another crane has a feather attached to a string that dangles above your car. The crane is descending the feather onto your platform. Once it touches the roof of your car and thus tips the balance, a mechanism will snap the connection between the platforms. No longer dependent on one another, your platform will simply crash down to the ground. Boom”

“What do you want from me?” Oswald asks the phone. Desperation is clear in his voice, but he doesn’t care.

“I want from you what you have taken from me” Edward says. He sounds marginally angrier now. Oswald gulps. He is not good with Edward’s riddles, he never has been.

“I don’t-“ he starts, but Edward interrupts him. “A piece of you, Oswald. It’s really not that hard. When Isabella died, she took a piece of me with her. So. Give up a piece of yourself to save yourself. Good luck” and then the phone disconnects.

“No!” Oswald breathes and scrambles forward to pick up the now dead device. “Edward?” he calls into the receiver, although he knows that Edward’s gone. He looks out of the windows because he’s sure Edward is somewhere he can observe the scene. Or maybe he’s just installed a camera and hides at the other side of Gotham.

“A piece of myself to save myself” Oswald whispers under his breath. Helplessly, he looks around the car for any more clues. What the hell did Edward mean? Panic rises in Oswald. He’s acutely aware of how uncomfortably far away the ground is. If this construction worked as Edward explained, Oswald would doubtlessly crash to his death. He cranes his neck to see if there’s really another crane with a feather looming over the car. He can just so make out the shape of it through the vehicle’s rear window.

Fear claws its way from his heart to his head, numbs his body and chases away all ability for clear thoughts. Oswald rattles at the door, bangs against the window, kicks against the plexiglas divider. He even tries to slash open the roof’s cover panel. He can’t concentrate on the riddle any more, although he knows he should. How much longer does he have until the feather will tip the balance? Oswald takes a shuddering breath and forces himself to calm down.

Then the phone rings again, loud and shrill in the small confines of the car.

“Edward?” Oswald whimpers into the receiver.

Oswald can hear Edward sigh. “The mini-fridge” he says impatiently.

Oswald leans forward to open the compartment beneath the plexiglas divider. Someone had switched its power off and there are no drinks in it. But Oswald can just so make out a small, flat shape inside the fridge. He takes it out and holds it up into the cold floodlight. They’re scissors.

But they look slightly different from ordinary scissors.

“Do you get the hint?” Edward asks from the phone on the seat. “Now even you should be able to figure out-“

“Wait, don’t go” Oswald calls and picks up the phone again.

“It’s a fucking _riddle_ , Oswald. I’m not going to hand you the solution on a silver platter”. Edward sounds angry and a little tired.

“I know, I got it. I just want to talk to you some more” Oswald is tired as some of the adrenaline leaves his system. He misses Edward so much right now, despite everything. He thinks of the little riddles Edward used to drop every now and then, word riddles, so obvious once you hear the answer. Oswald never bothered much to think about them.

Edward is silent, but the line isn’t dead. Edward just doesn’t say anything. So Oswald says: “I miss you”, because it’s the truth and Oswald feels Edward deserves some truth. “Everything’s falling to pieces since you left. The new girl doesn’t get anything right and I don’t know where you keep the invoices and I eat dinner alone every night, Olga still cooks for two though, so we throw away so much food, and the homeless shelter’s been in my hair about that and-“

“Oswald. You’re babbling” Edward interrupts him, but his voice is gentle. He sighs again, less exasperated this time, only tired.

Oswald closes his eyes and touches the phone to his forehead. “I get your riddle” he says quietly.

“So? Solve it” Edward challenges him.

“In a minute. Please don’t let me crash to death” Oswald says but he doesn’t care very much right now. He knows what he must do and it’s simple and strangely anticlimactic.    

“The invoices are in the suspension file at the bottom drawer of my … of the desk” Edward says softy after a small silence. “Why don’t you offer the homeless shelter to give them any excess food? And announce to the press you’ll sponsor them turkeys for Thanksgiving”.

Oswald smiles a little. “I’m not doing very well without you” he says into the receiver. When he’s very quiet, he can hear Edward’s breathing on the other side of the line.

“Oswald … “ Edward says and there is a pleading in his voice.

“Well” Oswald says and takes a breath “I hope this works”. He disconnects the phone and turns on the front camera to double as a mirror. He has to stoop and crane his neck to see what he’s doing when he puts the scissors to his hair. They cut easily through the black strands, like any good, new hairdresser’s scissors should.

A minute later, Oswald holds a handful of hairs in his palm. The phone beeps once and a simple text message says: “Congratulations”. Then the window rolls down automatically, just to a slit, and Oswald gives his hairs over to the wind.

The loss of his hair as a counterbalance of weight to the feather. That is so like Edward. Elegant and deadly and easy once you know the solution.

The electromagnet hums with power again and descends to connect with the lead weight on the opposite scale. It slowly picks up the lump, causing to descend Oswald’s side carefully to the ground. When the platform is settled on the earth once more, Oswald hears the locks click. He tries the door handle and can get out easy enough. He rounds the car, sits in the driver’s seat and starts the engine. His phone is still in his hand and Oswald just sits there and stares at it for several minutes. But it doesn’t ring or beep. Edward is gone. Oswald goes into reverse gear and backs the car off the platform and then drives home.

\-----

With his hands stuffed into his pockets, Edward contemplates the disposable cell phone on the table. Although Oswald has solved his riddle, this had not gone as Edward imagined.

Oswald confuses him. He should have pleaded and raged and threatened. Instead he tells Edward that he misses him and they talk about turkey.

And it was nice. It was … familiar. Edward has liked working as chief of staff. The job was interesting, diverse and paid well. But Edward has liked more working with Oswald. Oswald depended on him and challenged him. He rewarded him not only with a generous pay, but also with smiles full of trust and gratitude. Oswald understands Edward, and Edwards understands Oswald. More, they accept each other. Oswald knows what Edward has done. Knows about all the crimes and murders Oswald has committed. No-one else but Oswald, not even Isabella, knows all the details to his deeds.

Oswald understands and he accepts what he finds in Edward.

Edward puts the phone in his pocket and takes out a piece of paper and a pen.

\-----

“Five more? All today? Have you been neglecting the mail, Shirleyshireen?” Oswald waddles over to his new secretary’s desk. He tried to see in her the chief of staff he’s hired her to be, but quite frankly, he can’t. She was a trainee at best.

“No sir, I swear, they all arrived today. Here, see the mail’s date stamps? They were all sent on the same day it seems”. She rounds the desk and walks towards him, letters held out in her hand. Oswald snatches them from her grip.

“I don’t want to be disturbed for the next hour!” he calls over his shoulder, already turning on his heels.

Oswald quickly makes his way to his private study and shuts the door behind him. He sits in the large leather chair and arranges the letters in front of him.

They all state his address and the addition ‘confidential’ under his name. The addresses are handwritten this time and it’s Edward’s neat style again. There is no apparent order to them, as far as Oswald can see.

He turns around each letter and holds them against the light. But, as with the first one, he can only see a piece of paper in each.

Oswald opens them one after another and lays out the papers. They’re not really letters, because none of them has a salutation.

All they contain are riddles. One on each piece of paper.

Oswald sighs heavily, rests his elbows on the tabletop and props his chin in his hands. The smell of Edward’s aftershave wafts up to him again, seemingly stronger than the last time. Every letter holds a trace of it. Oswald closes his eyes and wonders if Edward has done this deliberately. He wants to believe it.

He picks up the phone and calls Shirleyshireen. “No appointments for the rest of the day” he tells her. “This is going to take a while…”

\-----

It took two days, in fact. The riddles were hard because their solutions are a mix of numbers and words. Twice, Oswald comes close to ripping them up and having his thugs simply search the entire city for Edward. But they hold Edward’s handwriting and Edward’s smell and so they’re far too valuable for Oswald to do that.

Now Oswald broods over a map of Gotham downtown and traces his forefinger over the grid squares. He’s tense and concentrated because if the map doesn’t show what he thinks it should, then the last two days were for nothing.

Next to the map lie the five letters. Oswald has noted down what he believes is the solution to each riddle underneath Edward’s handwriting.

_Gotham. Downtown. 4D. 8PM. Wednesday._

Oswald’s finger finds grid number 4D on the map and he releases a long, pent-up breath. The whole grid is occupied by a sprawling office building. Oswald knows that it holds a large law firm and a real estate agency. He checks his watch. It is four PM and it is Wednesday. He has four more hours.

Oswald folds up the map and puts the letters away in the drawer of his desk.

\-----

It is windy atop the building. A breeze snatches at Edward’s hair and coat. It annoys him because the collar of his coat keeps snapping up to his face and distracts him from setting up the device.

The sun has fully set a while ago and Edward has to work with two flashlights. He connects the car battery to the construction he has brought with him and bolts it down on the portable table with a cordless screwdriver.

He checks his watch. It is twenty minutes to eight.

The door that leads up to the rooftop opens suddenly with a screeching sound. Oswald steps out of it, hands in his pockets and his shoulders hunched against the cold draft.

Edward blinks and pushes his glasses up his nose.

“Edward?” Oswald calls across the large expanse of the rooftop. He doesn’t have his cane with him and walks slower than usual.

“Oswald” Edward says and tries to keep any emotion out of his voice. Oswald waddles up to him. He’s winded and he breathes quickly through parted lips. “I’m impressed you’re here, although too early” Edward tells him. “I feared you wouldn’t solve them in time”

Oswald flashes a coy grin and shrugs once. “To be honest, it did take me two days and a night”

“Honest” Edward echoes him quietly, the wind snatches the word away before it can reach Oswald. “Well” Edward says in a louder voice that is meant for Oswald to hear “I always knew you’re capable of so much more if you only put your mind to it”.

Something crosses over Oswald’s face at these words and the man in front of Edward seems to falter a little. “So you keep telling me” Oswald murmurs, almost too soft for Edward to hear. Almost.

Oswald steps up to him, invading his personal space. His eyes find Edward’s and Oswald says: “I miss you, my friend”. A bit too much pathos swings with it, and the last two words seem oddly misplaced.

Still, Edward feels himself unable to step back. Oswald looks into Edward’s eyes, stares right into them, unabashed and unnerving, as if he’s looking for something valuable he has lost.

Edward tries to hold Oswald’s gaze but the stare is making him nervous, so he flickers his eyes down to Oswald’s narrow lips and his chin. He can feel the warmth emanating from the other man, so close are they, and for a moment, all Edward wants is to let go.

Let go of the remnants of a foolish infatuation, let go of this warpath for revenge. What does he gain from it? The past is the past and no matter what he does to whom, it cannot be changed.

Edward lowers his eyes and they come to rest on Oswald’s tie. It’s purple and it’s a gift from Edward after Oswald had won the race for mayor. Edward had spent two hours picking it out, like he had spent almost an hour already picking out a bottle of wine for dinner with Oswald before he had been interrupted. Distracted.

“Ed?” Oswald asks quietly and Edward coughs and then takes a step back. “Why are we up here in the darkness and cold?” Oswald raises his eyebrows and Edward looks at the construction to his right. Oswald follows his gaze.

“Give me your hand, please?” Edward asks and holds out his own, palm up. Oswald doesn’t hesitate a second before putting his left hand into Edward’s.

Edward frowns at Oswald’s readiness to obey this quickly. He looks at the man’s fingers in his own. They’re warm, much warmer that Edward’s own wind bitten skin. Edward idly runs his thumb over the back of Oswald’s hand. The skin is smooth and unweathered, but there are tiny scars there from past hardships. Perhaps these hands hadn’t pulled too many triggers, or held too many deadly cudgels, but they had orchestrated numerous deaths and mutilations. And yet they are soft and warm.

Oswald’s breath is quickening under Edward’s touch and Edward takes care not to meet the man’s eyes as he guides his hand towards the contraption. Edward carefully bends all of Oswald’s fingers except for the forefinger and Oswald lets him without resistance. He places the finger on a small metallic plate. Then he straps Oswald’s arm deftly to the table with a thick leather manacle.

“This is sort of mark two of my last tiny guillotine” he explains to Oswald. “As the first one worked so well on Tabitha’s hand, I perfected its performance”.

Oswald is silent and only watches him. He is tenser now, his jaw is set and his eyes are wide. But he doesn’t beg or whimper or even try to pull out his hand. 

Edward picks up the dome-shaped netting of wires and metal he’d put next to the guillotine. “Hold still for a moment. I need to place this on your head” he explains and Oswald once again complies.

“This is a lie detector” Edward says while he slides the metallic cap carefully over Oswald’s head. When his fingers brush over the uneven patches where Oswald has cut his hair to escape from the scale trap, he winces. “The mechanism is simple. The detector notices a lie in your brainwaves and sends a signal to the guillotine which will descend on your finger. It cannot be fooled”.  

The light from the two flashlights is bad and Edward can’t see how he needs to fasten the strap under Oswald’s chin to secure the detector properly. So he takes off his glasses and steps closer to Oswald, squinting as his fingers fumble with the clasp. Edward’s nose brushes against Oswald’s chin and Edward hears the smaller man taking in a startled breath through his nose.

The clasp is secure, the contraption all set up and working and Edward could step away. He doesn’t need to be close to Oswald to make this work. But then again, he doesn’t want to move away from where he is just yet. So he picks at the ends of the leather straps some more and exhales against Oswald’s warm skin. Oswald shivers and moves his head a little bit, his cheek brushes against Edward’s.

“Did you kill Isabella?” Edward whispers. He breathes with his mouth open, too quick and suddenly it isn’t so cold any more.

“Yes” Oswald answers quietly and nothing happens.

Edward closes his eyes, his lashes brush against Oswald’s skin.

“Why?” Edward asks him.

Oswald hesitates. He swallows, wets his lips with the tip of his tongue and says: “I was jealous”

A funny feeling jolts through Edward’s heart and he doesn’t know where it comes from or what it means. He wants to feel anger and hatred for Oswald but they’re too close and too close to something dangerous and Edward can’t step away from any of it.

When Edward moves his head again, a minute gesture, he feels Oswald’s lips brush against the corner of his mouth. His fingers still touch the metal cap’s straps without purpose, fooling no-one anymore, and so he lets them spread over the skin of Oswald’s neck instead.   

“Are you in love with me?” Edward whispers as he leans further into their contact but Oswald can’t answer because his lips brush over Edward’s, hesitant and light, and when Oswald draws back a tiny bit, Edward still feels the word more than he hears it.

“No”

There’s a metallic whirr and then a sharp, loud clang as the guillotine’s blade descends and hacks off Oswald’s finger.

Oswald jolts back from Edward and screams, more in shock than in pain, and doubles over his severed finger. The manacle has come lose, as it was designed to do once the blade falls, and Oswald withdraws his hand shakily. He clutches his stump to his belly, covering it with his good hand. He bends over the wound, his eyes squeezed shut and sweat begins to form on his brow. He clenches his teeth and his face contorts into a grimace as the pain begins to set in.

The door to the rooftop bangs open and two large men emerge from it to hurry over to Oswald. One draws a weapon as he jogs and trains it on Edward.

“Boss!” One of them calls “Are you all right?”.

Edward steps back and puts his hands up. He stays very quiet and takes care not make a move.

“I’m fine. Don’t hurt him” Oswald tells his brutes breathlessly. He lifts his head to look at Edward. A droplet of sweat clings to the tip of his nose and pain is edged clearly into his face. “A piece of me for a piece of you” he wheezes through clenched teeth.

Then one of the brutes takes Oswald by the elbow and leads him back to the exit.

Edwards is numb to the wind’s bite as he stares after Oswald. Something dropping to the floor next to him catches his attention. It’s Oswald’s severed finger that the wind has rolled off the tabletop.

\-----

The pain is near unbearable for the first day. Oswald lives solely on painkillers and strong bourbon and has locked himself into his bedroom.

Olga brings him two meals but he hardly gets anything down. A doctor comes by, lectures him sternly, puts fresh dressing on his wound and then prescribes him stronger painkillers.

Fever grips Oswald at some point during the night and he is glad he can’t sleep for the pain or he would certainly plunge into nightmares. In the morning, Shirleyshireen delivers the new painkillers she has finally picked up and things become a little more bearable.

Oswald can get up again after two days, although he needs help with every little thing. Whenever he touches anything with the stump that used to be his left forefinger, a new jolt of pain erupts and makes his knees buckle.

The rest of the week is a miserable haze. Oswald tries to distract himself with work, and enough of that had piled up during his two days long withdrawal to solve Edward’s riddles.

He can still write, at least, with his good right hand, and he gets some work done. It distracts him not only from his severed finger, but also from what else had happened on the rooftop.

Gradually, the pain subsides as the wound closes and Oswald feels like he’s regaining his wits. He shuffles through a folder Shirleyshireen asked him to work on for a press release. It contains old speeches and publicity photographs of Oswald. He turns a page over and suddenly, there is a picture of him and Edward. It was taken during the victory parade after he had just won the election. They are both grinning from ear to ear, next to each other in the open-top car. Oswald’s arm is raised and his hand is blurred from the waving motion. His eyes are on the crowd, gazing somewhere into the distance.

But Edward’s eyes are on Oswald. He is standing slightly behind Oswald, his hands are clasped behind his back. He holds himself very straight, poised even. The first thing that comes into Oswald’s mind is that Edward looks like a protector in this moment. Like someone who is ready to jump at any danger to his mayor, no matter what.

‘I would do anything for you’ Edward had said and he had meant it, that evening.

Oswald draws a ragged breath as a gloom settles over him. He closes the folder and calls for his secretary.

Shirleyshireen puts the files away and then declares that she’d like to wrap it up if the mayor didn’t have any more pressing matters for today. Oswald shakes his head and dismisses the girl.

\-----

Shirleyshireen whimpers and begs and cries. It’s a pitiful cacophony and it gets on Oswald’s nerves.

They’re in an abandoned warehouse. Once again, it is dark and windy. The warehouse’s windows are mostly smashed in, the wind whistles through the cracks, creating strong drafts. Ragged graffiti adorns the walls in some places. The floor is littered with remains of wood pallets once used to transport heavy goods. Broken chairs and a moldy desk stand in one corner. Abandoned, dirty mattresses tell Oswald that this place used to be some junkies’ hideout.

This is as much as Oswald can make out from his high viewpoint. They stand on a loft above the large, open storeroom. There is no railing, just a drop several feet down that will probably kill any human being. But most certainly it will kill Shirleyshireen.

Edward stands behind her with a poker in his hand that is inches away from her back. The poker’s tip glows red hot. The brazier it has previously stuck in cackles with a fresh fire. Shirleyshireen’s naked toes protrude over the loft’s edge. Her hands are bound behind her back. If Edward poked her – even with a stick that isn’t glowing – she would lose her balance and drop to death.

Oswald stands a couple of feet away from the whimpering girl.

Oswald has his arms crossed awkwardly. His stump no longer hurts and becomes less and less sensitive, but phantom pain creeps into it every now and then, so Oswald doesn’t like to touch anything with it yet.

There hasn’t been a proper riddle this time. Ten minutes after Shirleyshireen has left Oswald’s manor, she poked her head back into the door. “I just got a call from the Gotham Gazette? They said they want to do the interview now and make it a big cover story for tomorrow’s edition. I think it’s an amazing-“

And that was how far the girl got before someone put a piece of cloth over her mouth and she rolled her eyes up and went limp. Oswald decided he could do without a similar treatment and followed the men into the black car.

“Go ahead, push her down. I’m cold and it’s late” Oswald suggests.

Edward gives him a look.

“If you think she means anything to me…” Oswald says and shrugs. Well, she really doesn’t. He couldn’t care less whether this girl goes flying and he wonders why Edward has chosen her. Does he think she can double as revenge for Isabella? A random girl who happens to work for him?

Edward lowers the poker. When it hits the ground with a high ting, Shirleyshireen flinches violently. Edward turns to Oswald, but stares back at her and says: “If you try anything other than quietly standing there and breathing, you will be surprised how very quickly I will be there to push you”. The girl nods jerkily and is finally silent.

Oswald uncrosses his arms when Edward walks towards him. The picture he has stumbled upon earlier floats back into his mind. Edward, smiling like the happiest man on earth, reliably at his back.

“How is your finger?” Edward asks softly and takes Oswald’s hand gingerly into his.

Oswald shrugs with one shoulder. “It’s only the left hand” he mumbles.

Edward studies the bandaged stump, carefully turning Oswald’s hand this way and that way. He caresses the exposed skin just under the bandage’s edge with two fingers. “Can you feel that?” he whispers and seems genuinely absorbed in his exploration.

“Oh, yes” Oswald breathes and he can feel a lot more than just this.

“GCPD! Hands where I can see them and step away from the girl!”

Harvey Bullock’s bark echoes off the warehouse’s walls. Behind him, more police file in, spreading out in a pattern. Their weapons, armed with little flashlights, swivel as they secure the area. Jim Gordon walks up behind his partner and crosses his arms. He has a sour look on his face as he stares at Oswald.

Edward had released Oswald’s hand and it felt cold as he raised it up. Next to him, Edward does the same.

The police have found the rusty ladder that leads up to the platform and ascend it like large insects.  

“Mayor of Gotham involved in the murderer of his own chief of staff!” Bullock shouts and sketches an imaginative newspaper headline into the air. “’D say that’s one hell offa story if we didn’t have shit like that every other Tuesday”. He shakes his head and Jim Gordon continues to glare at Oswald.

Shirleyshireen had taken two small steps back. She turns her head to where the police are climbing up the ladder and continues to edge away from a fall to certain death. The poker still lies where Edward has dropped it and if the girl took another step, she would set her foot square on its glowing tip. Reflexes would kick in, she’d lunge forward and right off the platform.

Edward realizes this the moment Oswald does. But Edward’s reactions are better. He attempts a step towards Shirleyshireen, his arm shooting out to grab her.

In the same moment, gunfire explodes into the silence and bullets coming from below whizz past Oswald’s ear.

“Edward!” he yells and jumps towards the other man. He digs his fingers into Edward’s jacket, ignoring the stump’s pain, and drags him forcefully to the ground.

All hell erupts around them. The police no longer creep towards them carefully but break out into a run. The ladder is on the far end of the loft and between it and Oswald and Edward is a small office shack and several pillars that provide some cover. The bullets from below keep coming, but the angle is too steep, so they fly over Oswald’s head as he presses his body and Edward to the cold, dusty concrete floor.

“I hope the new guys I hired are clever enough” Oswald murmurs as he drags himself along on his knees and elbows. His eyes are focused on the row of low windows in front of him, long since smashed in like the ones below. Oswald sends up a prayer as he leaps to his feet, lunges to the window in front of him and throws himself out of it in one desperate motion.

The fall is short but a shock like cold ice and all wind is knocked out of him as he crashes into the life net. He rolls out of it and drops to the ground just in time for Edward to fall into the same spot. 

The police have reached the window and point their weapons on Oswald and Edward, little red dots dance all around them, though the men hold their fire. Oswald’s car waits with open doors and he ushers Edward in before he climbs onto the passenger seat next to him. Oswald can just drag the door shut before his driver floors the pedal and the vehicle veers away from the warehouse with screeching tires.

It is nearing midnight on a Monday, so the streets are mostly empty and the ride back to the mansion is short and smooth. The GCPD don’t seem in for a pursuit, but then again, they know where they can find the mayor of Gotham City.

Edward is slumped against the upholstery, his head tipped back and he has his eyes closed. He breathes hard. Every now and then, his sweat-covered face is illuminated by passing neon lights from outside.

“Are you hurt?” Oswald asks, his voice is husky and tight, adrenaline is still running high in his veins. He leans closer to Edward and switches on the lights. Edward shakes his head jerkily but Oswald still does his best to study the man next to him for any wounds. Thankfully, Edward had apparently not caught a bullet. Oswald checks himself as well but he should feel the pain by now. Against all odds, they really seem to have escaped unharmed.

They don’t talk during the ride back to the Cobblepot estate, but Edward, staring up to the car’s roof, fingers the slashed cover panel that Oswald had not had replaced since the episode with Edward’s scale trap.

A light is on in the mansion and Olga waits at the door with her hands clasped under her chin. She has a worried look on her face and mutters something in Russian under her breath as she ushers Oswald and Edward into the living room.

“Should I make something to eat? Call a doctor?” the housemaid asks with genuine worry, but Oswald cuts her off with a wave of his hand.

“No, thank you, Olga. You’re relieved for the night” Oswald tells her and has to promise her several times that he can handle himself. Olga finally sighs, not too happily, and closes the door behind her.

Suddenly, all is silent. A single floor lamp sheds a small circle of mellow light. Otherwise, the room is dark and quiet. 

Edward sits on the far end of the couch, elbows on his knees and his face buried in his hands. His tie, dangling between his legs, quivers.

Oswald sits down next to Edward, carefully leaving a generous space between them. He frowns as he studies the other man. “Are you crying?”

Edward perks up and looks at Oswald. His eyes are dry, but his mouth is contorted into a sickly grin. His shoulders shake with a dry laugh. “It’s a circle. Almost perfect” he says. Oswald gives him a questioning look. “Don’t you see? Here we are, in the same spot after I had Butch’s ploy exposed. I nearly choked for you, saving your life. And today you did the same for me, and we end up on your couch once more”. Edward’s voice dwindles down to a whisper on the last few words, the smile fading from his face. “All that’s missing is ginger tea” he adds, almost wistfully.

“You remember that?” Oswald asks him because he doesn’t know what else to say, or rather, he knows, but it’s one of the many things can’t tell Edward.

“I remember what I told you” Edward replies. He folds his hands between his knees and stares out into the expanse of Oswald’s living room.

“I would do anything for you” Oswald says quietly.

Edward nods into the darkness. “Those were my exact words, I believe”

“No”, Oswald says. “That’s what I am telling you now, Edward”.

Edward looks at him then, his glasses askew on his nose. Oswald scoots a bit closer. He wants to touch Edward, but despite their intimacy back on the rooftop, he’s afraid to.

“I can't be bought, but I can be stolen with one glance. I'm worthless to one, but priceless to two. What am I?” Oswald quotes Edward’s own riddle back at him. It was those words Edward had used to tell Oswald that the people of Gotham believed in him, that they needn’t be bought to vote for Oswald.

They had loved him.

Edward leans forward, staring at Oswald. “Why did you lie?” he asks Oswald with an intent voice. “Your finger. You could have … “ he trails off there, lowering his eyes to the stump in Oswald’s lap.

Oswald hunches his shoulders and follows Edward’s gaze. “Because we both needed it to happen” he says. “You needed revenge for Isabella. I needed to suffer that revenge”

“You wanted this?” Edward asks, disbelief in his voice.

Oswald shakes his head. “Wanting to part with my hair and finger? No, of course not. But I can understand why it had to be this way. I can relate”.

Suddenly, Edward collapses, deflates like a broken toy. He lets out a long breath, his head hangs between his shoulders. “I’m so tired” he whispers. “I’m done, I’m finished. It’s over. It’s eaten me up and now I’m raw”. Edward takes off his glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose.

“Edward” Oswald says. He takes the glasses from Edward’s limp fingers and puts them on the low table in front of them.

There’s a clock ticking in another room, and the wind chases rustling dry leaves over the pavement outside. It’s the breaking point, the finish line. The conclusion. The last page. No more riddles and no more lies now. They’re both spent. The episode is over. Isabella is dead and avenged, and Oswald has taken it, every single thing, and he would have given up more, a foot, an arm, except that it wouldn’t have mattered.

Because Edward had always owned the biggest piece of him, long before his warpath.

“I love you” Oswald says quietly.

“I know” Edward answers.

\-----

Edward turns to face Oswald, studies him silently for long moments. Understanding begins to bloom in his mind, now that it’s cleared from the frantic obsession of revenge. Oswald has seen through all his riddles and traps, better even than clever Edward could. Oswald is right, it did have to play out like this, there had to be sacrifices. There was a bigger game underneath the obvious one Edward created, a psychological path that Edward didn’t know he needed to walk.

Even when he had to hurt Oswald, Edward had relished the company of the smaller man. Being with him meant being himself. They could talk about the next charity dinner or they could talk about creative ways to kill people, it was all the same. Never had Edward felt a bond as strong as with this man. It is a thing that grows, slowly, but slow enough for its roots to go deep and solid.

Oswald’s hand is on his thigh, still but tense. He smiles a tight little smile. “I’ve some bourbon in my study. I think we can both do with a glass”. Oswald nods once to emphasize his words and gets up.

Oswald’s wrists are bony. Edward’s long fingers can encircle them easily as he grabs the other man with both hands. Without preamble, he drags him down again. Oswald loses his balance and lands with one knee on the couch and halfway in Edward’s lap. Oswald gasps and his mouth hangs slightly open. He’s rigid as Edward pulls him closer.

Edward doesn’t release Oswald’s wrists. He reclines back on the couch and drags the other man on top of him. Oswald is still tense but his body betrays him. His breath is fast and uneven and when Edward moves his hip he can feel Oswald hard against his inner thigh.

“Pinot Noir” he tells Oswald. He keeps the smaller man suspended above him by his wrists, Oswald’s weight pins him down into the cushions. A confused look flits across Oswald’s features. “I would have picked Pinot Noir for the dinner you had invited me to”. Edward swallows and Oswald’s eyes flicker to his bobbing Adam’s apple for a second before he fixes them on Edward’s face again. There is hesitation and a hint of alarm in Oswald’s eyes, but also crystal clear anticipation and naked want. “I’ve been in that wine shop for almost an hour. And I would’ve-“ Edward wets his lips. He’s breathing through his mouth and his lips get dry. “I would’ve stayed the night” he finishes and he’s at the point of no return, deep, deep down into dark waters. His own body is responding to Oswald’s heat and hard-on. He feels Oswald strain against his grip.

“Then stay the night” Oswald breathes and Edward finally releases him.

It happens all in one motion. Oswald’s lips crash against Edward’s as the man on top of him grinds down his hips. Edward gasps and moans into Oswald’s mouth but he doesn’t break the kiss, only deepens it. Their bodies align, Oswald on top of Edward, wedged into the cushions of the narrow couch.

Hands drag at clothes, shaking fingers open buttons or simply rip them open when impatience overcomes them. Oswald’s skin is smooth and soft everywhere, not just on his hands, and Edward is fascinated by this as his palms roam over Oswald’s back and shoulders, ribs and torso and glide between his legs.

Oswald kisses him and bites him and Edward realizes only now how badly Oswald wants him, has wanted him for a very long time, and how he must’ve bottled this up, not knowing when release comes. If it comes.

Edward takes him in his palm, long fingers circling him, hard and ready and it doesn’t take a minute until Oswald comes apart from this simple touch and he cries into Oswald’s shoulder. Fingernails dig into Edward’s sides, desperate and spasmodic and then Oswald pushes himself down and out of Edward’s grip before he can react.

Edward comes into Oswald’s mouth, far too soon, his hips arching up, his mouth hangs open in a silent cry.

Sweat burns on Edward’s knees and palms. He has scratched them during their escape. He holds Oswald against him until they’re breathing more evenly.

“You need a shower” Oswald murmurs into Edward’s skin and Edward nods.

Oswald’s bed is large and soft, so much better than the narrow couch. Oswald skinks deep into the mattress as Edward climbs on top of him.

They don’t get tired of touching and licking, kissing and pushing each other to the edge. It’s a new thing for Edward, being like this with another man, but like everything else with Oswald, it’s effortless and balanced and has no restrictions.

The sky is tinted purple and red with dawn when Oswald falls asleep next to Edward. Edward rolls over to the other side and drags the crumbled blanket out from under Oswald. He fishes for one of the many pillows and when he closes his eyes, sleep drags him down.

\-----

Oswald wakes because he’s freezing. His body is already shivering and he’s still half asleep when he drags the blanket over himself. The bed is empty except for himself sprawled across it. Pillows are strewn around him, some with still wet with stains from the night.

Oswald gets up and finds a dressing gown. The clock on his nightstand says it’s nearly noon. There’s no sign of Edward.

Oswald sighs. When he opens the door, the smell of pancakes rises up to him. His stomach growls in reply and he makes his way down the stairs. Why Olga is preparing pancakes for lunch is beyond him, though.

Edward beams a bright smile when Oswald enters the kitchen. He’s dressed in his dusty, torn clothes from yesterday but has found Olga’s frilly apron. And he’s making pancakes.

“Good morning” Edwards greets him happily and flips the pan.

Oswald stands in the door with mouth open. The table is already set with flatware, different jars of jam, maple syrup, fresh fruits and soft butter.

“You’re. Uhm” Oswald says. “You’re here”.

Edward’s smile softens a little. “Where else would I be?” he replies.

 

\- END

**Author's Note:**

> EDIT: Thank you so VERY much for this incredible gift art, Riverance! I am still humbly bouncing with glee. <3


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